


Cover Me

by pettifogger



Series: Cover Me [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: (The Din Djarin Story), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Begging, Bottoming from the Top, Canon-Typical Violence, Cunnilingus, Din gets off on giving and you can't convince me otherwise, F!Reader - Freeform, F/M, Feelings, Fighting in space, Helmetless Din Djarin, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Penetrative Sex, Oral Sex, Plot Twists, Sensory Deprivation, Some violence but only bad guys get hurt, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, blindfold, smugglers, touch-starved reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:13:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28138233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettifogger/pseuds/pettifogger
Summary: There are two basic rules for travelling in the Outer Rim:1. Never relinquish your weapon.2. Don’t trust smugglers.It’s kind of amazing, now that you think about it, that the three of you could fail so spectacularly at the most basic of rules. A Mandalorian, a magical green wizard baby, a professional drifter, and not a shred of common sense between you.A sticky situation just got stickier. What else can go wrong?Part 2 ofCover Me(can be read as a standalone):Part 1→Part 2(you’re here!) →Part 3→Part 4→Part 5
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian/Reader
Series: Cover Me [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2057175
Comments: 26
Kudos: 409





	Cover Me

There are three basic rules for travelling in the Outer Rim: 

  1. Never relinquish your weapon. 
  2. Don’t trust smugglers. 
  3. (optional) Always carry a towel. 



It’s kind of amazing, now that you think about it, that the three of you could fail so spectacularly at the most basic of rules. A Mandalorian, a magical green wizard baby, a professional drifter, and not a shred of common sense between you. 

☆

You wait in the cockpit for a few hours, idly scanning the monitors on the control console. You’re above to give up and go for a walk on the glacier a ship enters the _Razor Crest_ ’s radar. It grows closer and closer on the screen until you can hear her approach in the airspace above. You spot the ship through the viewport, kicking up a massive cloud of snow as she settles on the ice field not far away. You wrap your cloak tighter around you and head to the back of the ship, where Mando— _Din?_ _can you call him that?_ —clanks around the cargo hold. Cold air rushes in, bringing in snowflakes that settle on Mando’s armor as he shifts crates and boxes away from the giant rend in the hull. The kid is in his crib, making a tiny snowball as best he can with his six little fingers. 

You’re about to call over to the Mandalorian and tell him about the ship’s arrival, but he nods like he already knows. He turns back to his task, and you go to gather your blaster before meeting the ship’s crew after they disembark. As you rifle around in your belongings, you think about how quickly you’ve learned to read the Mandalorian’s silent communication.

After you find your blaster and the Mandalorian straps on his guns, the two of you round the nose of the _Razor Crest,_ half-buried in a snow drift. Kuuzo, the Kubaz trader—well, technically a smuggler, you were being generous when you said he was a trader—is waiting on the gangplank of his ship. He waves at you with a gloved hand. His face is obscured by a pair of red goggles and the hood of his cloak, but he looks nearly the same as he did when you last saw him. You look away from the Kubazian to his ship, finally registering its size. She’s not the same ship Kuuzo used to fly; she’s bigger, a hulking beast of a vessel whose shadow engulfs the _Crest._

Mando lingers a few steps behind you, his hand resting on the edge of the baby’s crib. _He never leaves the kid behind, does he?_ You glance back at him, and everything about his stance is reads as caution. 

Kuuzo looks from you to the Mandalorian. It might be hard to see Kuuzo’s face under his hood, but you can see the change in his body language plain as day. He visibly recoils when he lays eyes on the Mandalorian. The gesture sends a chill down your spine, one completely unrelated to the freezing climate of Maldo Kreis. You frown. _Is it possible that Kuuzo didn’t know what he was walking into? Surely, Mando identified himself in the distress ping—right? Doesn’t this crew know to expect a Mandalorian?_

You don’t like the look of Kuuzo’s reaction. Taking a step forward, you prepare to diffuse whatever tension is growing in the air. Before you can speak, Kuuzo holds up a gloved hand. He signals for you to wait, and you glance up at Mando. After a half-second pause, he nods once. Curt. Wary. The Kubazian chitters in his native tongue and scurries up the gangplank, into the belly of the leviathan.

And you thought this trip couldn’t get stranger. 

“You speak Kubazian?” The Mandalorian’s voice is pitched low and quiet, like he doesn’t want to be overheard.

You shrug. “Enough to get by.” 

He tilts his helmet in consideration, looking down at you. At the sound of boots thumping on metal, he looks back up. Kuuzo descends halfway down the gangplank, beckoning you forward. 

That’s—odd. “You want us to board?” You phrase the question in Basic, knowing he understands—even if he can’t speak it. 

Kuuzo nods. Then he says something in Kubazian, and you catch the words for _captain_ and _talk._ There’s something strange about this interaction, but then again, this is your only chance to get off Maldo Kreis. That, and you know Kuuzo; he might be a smuggler, but you were the one who saved his hide on Takodana, after all. He owes you.

You look back at Mando. “He wants us to board. I don’t know why.” There’s no sense in both of you boarding a strange ship on uncertain conditions. “I’ll go ahead.”

Mando shakes his head. He presses a button on his wrist comm, and the baby’s crib shuts tight behind him. “I’m coming with you.” 

You’re about to head up the gangplank when Kuuzo holds up a hand again. He buzzes away in Kubazian. You hear _no gun, captain, back soon,_ and something that sounds like _no worry_.

“What did he say?”

You worry your lip between your teeth. “He doesn’t want us to bring weapons on board. Something about his captain and courtesy. He says we’ll be back soon, so don’t worry.”

Mando considers that for a long, silent moment. “What do you think?”

You look over your shoulder at the _Razor Crest,_ now tilting severely to starboard, slowly being buried in snow. You think about your rapidly-depleting stock of rations and the hole in the hull. You’ve survived almost a week in the frozen tundra, but you’re not sure you can last much longer. The child is a concern, too; you and the Mandalorian can go without food for a day or more, but the kid cries himself sick when he’s hungry.

“I think it’s our only shot.”

Under that helmet, you’re sure the Mandalorian is grimacing. But he nods, and you detach the blaster from your hip and place it on the ground beneath you. The Mandalorian follows suit, divesting himself of his blaster and amban rifle. He left most of his gear behind on the _Crest,_ it seems. There’s no rising phoenix in sight. Then again—you’re just going aboard Kuuzo’s ship to negotiate for supplies. You hardly need an armory for that. 

☆

Inside, the ship is dark and cluttered. It’s a smuggler’s vessel, that’s for sure; the cargo hold is considerably larger than that of the _Crest_ and it’s stacked full of undoubtedly stolen goods. You follow Kuuzo as he leads you through the maze of crates, occasionally looking back at Mando and the floating orb. He doesn’t let the crib float far, keeping it tight to his side. 

Eventually, you come to a halt in what you assume to be the ship’s galley. Sitting at the table, cutting a piece of jerky with a knife, is a human in coarseweave trousers and a leather jacket. He has all the swagger of a cocky smuggler—undoubtedly the captain. _He looks like a kriffing pirate,_ you think. _Ridiculous._

The pirate looks you up and down before glancing over at the Mandalorian. You hold your breath as he looks Mando up and down, the same appraising look Kuuzo gave when he spotted Mando from the gangplank. What you don’t want is a fight to break out between a trigger-happy smuggler captain and an unarmed Mandalorian. Mando would win, obviously, but it’s a complication you really don’t need right now.

Then the pirate looks back at you and grins. _Kriff,_ you think, and breathe a sigh of relief. He claps his hand on Kuuzo’s shoulder. “So you’re the girl who saved this bastard. I should thank you. He’s my best crew mate. Worth double his weight in chromium.”

“So you know the story.” You return the captain’s easy smile as best you can. “It was in my best interest. If I hadn’t intervened, he would’ve blown my captain’s head off, and then where would I be?”

The man laughs. “Out of a job, that’s for sure. Well, I’m glad he didn’t.” He extends a hand to shake. “Captain Jaa Darend, at your service. Kuuzo’s told me about you, but who’s this fellow over here?”

He reaches out to shake the Mandalorian’s hand. Mando stands still as a statue, per usual, and Captain Darend waits a long moment before dropping his hand awkwardly. You bite the inside of your cheek to stifle a laugh at the sour face he makes at Mando, like he just bit into a raw gruffle fruit. 

“This is the Mandalorian,” you explain. “We were on our way to Trask when we had a run-in with some New Republic X-wings. Let’s just say it went south. That’s how we ended up nose-first in a snowdrift.” 

Darend scratches his chin and nods. “Yeah, they’ll get you. This space is crawling with New Republic flyboys. You’d think they have more important things to do than hassle smugglers, but you never know with them.”

You nod in agreement. Meanwhile, Mando offers nothing to the conversation. He’s clearly chosen the stoic route in this interaction, letting his silence—and his armor—do the talking. 

Darend nods in Kuuzo’s direction. “Kuuzo here told you that the damage to your ship is pretty bad. Something about a tear in the hull?”

You’re about to respond when Mando finally cuts in. “She crash-landed on a glacier. Direct hit to the starboard hull. We’ve got the tools to fix it, but we need scrap to patch the tear.”

The captain nods. “We’ve got plenty of scrap laying around. Kuuzo, you know where it is. Show ‘em where we keep the spare ‘steel.” 

Kuuzo chitters in response.

“I’ll follow in just a second. Gotta check some numbers to make sure we’re still on track to complete our trip in time, but I think we’re fine. Give me a holler if you need anything.”

☆

It’s been a fair few months since you crewed a smugglers’ vessel, but you don’t remember one as disorganized as this. You wonder what Mando thinks of the ship as Kuuzo leads you down a dark hallway, away from the main cargo chamber. It doesn’t reflect on you too well, the fact that you associate yourself with people like this. This is a mess, even by your standards. What kind of crew leaves junk just laying around? And who keeps spare durasteel buried in the belly of their ship? If you were in charge of the cargo, you’d have it readily accessible. But then again, smugglers aren’t always the most logical of folks. That, and they’re sure as hell not trustworthy, which you can tell clear as day. With every step you take away from the gangplank and the familiar, your nerves get tighter. Mando shows no sign of concern, but then again, he rarely does.

You want to talk to him. You want to pull him aside and see if he’s feeling the same tense atmosphere on the ship; you want to ask exactly what the transmission from Kuuzo said when he responded to your distress signal. But Kuuzo is walking too fast, and it’s too damn quiet in the belly of the ship to speak without being heard. 

Finally, Kuuzo stops short in front of a closed door. He says something that sounds like _here_ before punching in a short code on the door’s keypad. It opens with the grating sound of unoiled gears, revealing a small storage room with a few slabs of durasteel leaning against the far wall.

You take a step forward to get a closer look. 

“How’s it look?” You hear from behind you. 

The captain’s voice makes you jump. Darend appears behind the Mandalorian and walks between him and Kuuzo, gesturing at the durasteel. 

“It’s not the highest equality ‘steel you could ask for, but it’s scrap. What can you expect, you know?”

“This should be fine,” Mando says. He’s curt; you can hear the discomfort in his voice. Just like you, he wants this interaction to be over and done as soon as possible.

“Kuuzo, show ‘em the piece I think will work best. It’s big enough to cut into whatever shape you need to fix that gash.” 

Kuuzo points towards a piece of metal in the back of the room. You glance back at the Mandalorian, and you both walk into the room to get a better look. _Kriff, it’s dark in here._ And the piece looks a bit too small, you think, mentally comparing it to the size of the hole in the _Crest._

“It might not be enough,” you say, at a level low enough that only the Mandalorian can hear. “Do you think we can do the repairs with just this?”

Mando looks at the durasteel, no doubt making the same calculations you are. He turns back to Kuuzo and Darend, and you crouch on the floor to inspect the quality of the metal. It’s not great, but it’ll do. It looks scavenged, for sure; you can see laser marks around the edges, like it was part of a bigger piece and was cut down to fit in this tiny storage room. 

You’re about to tell the Mandalorian that you can make do when you hear a shrill beep. It’s followed by the scrape of metal and Mando’s voice as he bites out, “ _Dank ferrik._ ”

“What—?” You turn just in time to see the door to the hold slam shut. Your hand flies to your hip, where you feel— _fuck_ —an empty holster. You look at the Mandalorian, and he’s done the same. Then he reaches behind him and swears again; where he would normally find his rifle is empty.

“ _Dank ferrik,_ ” you repeat, and it’s a hell of an understatement. You wheel around to Kuuzo and Darend, now separated from you by a wall of metal and transparisteel. Through the window, you see Darend place a hand on the baby’s crib. Your blood turns to ice in your veins, and you slam your fist against the metal.

“Kuuzo!” 

The kriffing coward looks at you and has the audacity to shy away, scurrying behind Darend.

“What in Maker’s name is this about?” Panic is rising in your chest, but you force your voice to stay level and commanding. You imagine that you’re filtering it through your own modulator, making it inhuman and intimidating like Mando’s voice through his helmet. 

“It’s nothing personal, darling,” Darend says, and the sickly-sweet endearment makes you want to put a blaster bolt between his eyes. “Just business. We had every intention to help you when it was just you. Then we saw that one.” He nods in the direction of the Mandalorian. “He’s a wanted man. The bounty on his head is worth more than anything on this ship.”

_Wanted?_ You look at the Mandalorian. He faces forward, and you follow his eyeline straight to—oh, _Maker_. The crib. His kid. 

Darend notices Mando’s glare and pulls the baby’s crib closer to him. “Oh, and whatever this thing is…” he trails off, and you’re one hundred percent certain he’s doing it for dramatic effect. _Kriffing pirates_. “...whatever is in here will fetch a pretty price on the black market.”

Your hand curls into a fist, and you’re about to punch the window again when the Mandalorian catches your wrist. He shakes his head.

“Don’t worry,” Darend says. “You’ll be free to go once we land. We don’t want anything from you.”

A scream wells up in your chest, but the Mandalorian’s hold on your wrist is iron and you force it down. Darend gives you one last look, then turns on his heel and disappears down the hall. Kuuzo follows, pushing the baby’s crib ahead of him. Mando drops your wrist, and the world comes crashing down around you. 

☆

You’re an idiot. An actual, confirmed idiot. You knew you weren’t the brightest the moment that you agreed to travel solo with a Mandalorian. And then you really started to question yourself when said Mandalorian banked the _Razor Crest_ into the surface of Maldo Kreis. But this—this beats everything that came before it. Every ill-advised decision you’ve ever made pales in comparison to walking straight into a trap. All because you trusted a kriffing Kubaz smuggler. You _trusted_ a _smuggler_. And not only that, no; you abandoned your weapons. You are officially the worst vagabond in the entire galaxy. The most basic rules to surviving in the Outer Rim, and you failed at all of them. You fucked up royally, and now you’re locked in a tiny cargo bay with a pissed-off Mandalorian, with not a single thought in your head but _fuck, fuck, fuck._

You try not to think about the child. Just getting the two of you locked up on a strange ship manned by hostile smugglers is bad enough. But that’s nothing compared to letting the kid get _kidnapped_. Surely, his crib will stay locked, but you can’t imagine what will happen when he wakes up in his little orb and realizes his father isn’t there. He’ll try and open the crib and it’ll stay locked, and he’ll start to cry, those big black eyes welling up, and he’ll do the plaintive little grabby hands he does when he wants Mando to pick him up, and oh, _Maker—_

You cover your face with both hands and they come away wet. You feel like you’re looking at someone else’s hands covered in someone else’s tears. _Am I crying? I’m crying. I don’t like this. It feels wrong. When was the last time I cried?_ But you’re exhausted and guilt is eating you up inside and you’re thinking about the child alone and scared and suddenly you’re sinking to the floor of the hold, sobs wracking your body. 

The Mandalorian hasn’t said a single word since the door slammed shut. You can practically hear the gears whirring in his head, even though you had no idea what he’s thinking. It surprises you to feel his hand on your shoulder when you come to rest on the cold metal floor.

For some reason, that breaks you. “I’m sorry,” you choke out, and you’re not sure what you’re apologizing for because it’s _so much_. The ship hums beneath you, and you know you’re in flight. Somehow, that makes it worse; every second you’re here is a step further into outlaw space, a step away from the _Crest_ and safety. You wipe your face with your sleeve. “I’m so fucking sorry, Din.” 

He shakes his head as he joins you on the floor. “Don’t say that here.”

“What?” You’re busy rubbing your nose on the sleeve of your shirt. 

“My name. Don’t say that here.” He nods upwards, and you see a holocam nestled in the corner of the ceiling.

“Kriff,” you swear. You pull your knees tight to your chest and rest your forehead on them. “ _Kriff_. I’m sorry.”

Mando tilts his head back, beskar clinking against the durasteel walls. “Stop apologizing.”

“No.” You rub your eyes with your hands. “No, because I got us into this, and I’m sorry for it. I suggested pinging Kuuzo, that rat bastard, and I convinced you to disarm before we got on board, like the fucking laser brain I am. And now your kid is with that slimy, double-crossing swindler, and we’re locked in here for Maker knows how long. I’m _sorry_.” 

The Mandalorian sighs. Even through the helmet, he sounds exhausted. “Okay,” he starts, “you can apologize. _After_ we get out of this.” 

Fuck, you don’t want to laugh, but his perennially brusque approach to everything actually does make you feel better. At least one thing is consistent in this mess: the Mandalorian’s attitude. 

“So you’re telling me you have a plan to get us out?”

“No.”

You huff and tilt your head back against the wall. The two of you mirror each other, the picture of defeat.

“Unless you have a Haysian ore lockpick or a blaster hidden somewhere, I’ve got nothing.”

A rustling noise, and you look over at the Mandalorian suddenly very preoccupied with his right boot. You watch in disbelief as he tilts his hand to show you—a knife.

“A knife?” You try to keep the derision out of your voice and fail spectacularly. “You’re a bounty hunter and the only weapon you have hidden on your person is a kriffing _knife_?” 

“Keep it down,” he says, nodding at the holocam again. He slips the blade back into his boot. “It’s a vibroblade.”

“Okay, a _vibroblade_. We’re trapped in a makeshift brig on a smuggler ship flying through open space, and all we have is a vibroblade to get us out.”

He scoffs and you can hear the attitude through the helmet. “ _You_ got us into it.”

“I’m _aware_.” You sigh, letting out the anger with your breath. “I’m aware of that. I fucked up, okay? I trusted someone I shouldn’t have and I roped you into it, and now we’re here and the kid is there. It’s my fault, I know.” 

The Mandalorian is silent as he considers. “I didn’t tell you about the bounty.”

“What?”

“I didn’t tell you that there’s a warrant out for me.”

Is he—taking some of the blame? Interesting. You know what, he’s right. If you had known he was a wanted man, you wouldn’t have gotten on his kriffing ship in the first place. You would still be in Mos Eisley, serving drinks to sleazy patrons and making enough tips to buy a ticket off the planet on a _legitimate_ ship. But you didn’t know, and here you are. And you appreciate Mando taking responsibility, even if his responsibility in this situation is relatively small.

“Tell me about Takodana,” he says, after a long moment. 

“What?”

“‘ _A story for another time_ ,’” he quotes back at you. “It’s another time. And it’s relevant.”

You sigh and stretch your legs out in front of you. “It’s not a particularly fun story anymore,” you start. “It was funnier when Kuuzo wasn’t a fucking accessory to our kidnapping.”

The Mandalorian snorts. You can’t help but smile a little; it’s nice when he laughs.

“I was on Takodana a few years ago with a shipping crew. Just grunt labor, you know. Hopping from planet to planet, figuring out what to do next. We stopped at Maz Kanata’s castle to refuel and trade some cargo, and the captain and some of the crew were gambling. Kuuzo was there, a game went south, and suddenly he owed credits he didn’t have. Nobody in our crew could understand him and they were just going to gut him and call it a day. I’d picked up a little Kubazian over the years, so I got in the middle of it. Kuuzo didn’t die; my crewmates got all the credits he had. That’s all.”

The Mandalorian nods. He seems—genuinely curious, actually. 

“It sounds selfless, but it really wasn’t. Mostly I didn’t want the captain to get shot. Job security and all that. And I knew if we got out our guns in Maz’s she would have us banned faster than we could shoot. It was entirely self-interested, but Kuuzo took it to heart. Said he owed me—or, I think that’s what he said. Like I said: I only know a _little_ Kubazian.” 

“Not enough to know when he’s lying,” the Mandalorian snorts.

“Shut _up_ ,” you say, and you shove him with your elbow. Bantering with Mando feels so normal that you almost forget you’re currently a prisoner. 

You stare at the dark ceiling for a long second, the shadows across the durasteel, the red light shining in from the hallway. Slowly, your amusement slips back into determination.

“I’m going to get us out of this. I got us into this, and I swear to the Maker, I’ll get us out of it.”

☆

Okay, so “I’m going to get us out of this” sounded great when you said it, but it quickly becomes apparent that you have absolutely no idea _how_ you’re going to do that. 

It’s hard to tell the passage of time in space, but you’re sure hours have passed since Captain Darend and that Kubaz traitor locked you in here. Mando is sitting against the far wall, back leaning against the durasteel slabs. He might be asleep, you’re not sure. You’ve almost slipped into sleep a few times, but you jerk awake every time, thinking about the child and the series of mistakes that led you here. 

It’s the way Darend looked at the crib that makes you want to gouge his eyes out. He looked at it like it was just another piece of cargo, just another thing to sell on the black market. Like it was a droid or a hunk of durasteel. Not Din’s child. Not a living thing.

_Not a living thing._

You sit up straighter against the wall. You rewind the day’s events, back to the moment Kuuzo stood on the gangplank of this Maker-forsaken ship and caught sight of the Mandalorian for the first time. The child was with you; you noticed his presence because it worried you. 

But—did Kuuzo see the child? You saw the kid, of course, because you were looking for him. It’s entirely possible, though, that Kuuzo didn’t see him. A memory springs to mind: Mando pressing buttons on his wrist comm, shutting the orb tight. If you remember correctly, Kuuzo didn’t see the kid. You put yourself in his perspective, then in Darend’s. You and Mando know the contents of the crib, of course, but they don’t. Because they never saw inside. 

It’s a shred of hope, but you feel the pieces of a plan start to form. 

You pick up a piece of scrap metal on the floor and throw it at the Mandalorian. It clangs off his helmet with a rather undignified _ding_. Mando grunts and brings a hand up to his helmet like you’d actually hit him in the head, and it’s such an absurd gesture that you fight back a smile. Okay, maybe you’ve been in this makeshift cell for longer than you realized. You’re officially punch-drunk.

You shake your head to sober yourself. 

“What?” Mando asks. Grouchy as usual.

You flicked your eyes up to the holocom and then stand up. Conscious of being watched, you pretend to stretch, groaning as if your aching limbs are bothering you. Now that you think of it, _kriff_ , they do. Your back aches from sitting on the floor, and you pace around the room for a minute or two, stretching it out. Finally, you slump down against the opposite wall, estimating the holocam’s blind spot and dropping yourself square in the middle of it. 

Mando looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. Maybe you have. Considering the circumstances, you wouldn’t be surprised. 

You give him what you hope is a rather obvious look, and after a long second, he follows suit. He pushes himself off the ground and leans against the wall, glaring down at you. With the hand hidden from the holocom, you gesture to the wall where you’d been sitting. Perhaps all the rearranging is unnecessary, but if you’re about to explain a plan, you’d rather the one of you wearing a mask face the camera. You don’t think they’ll be able to hear you, but you don’t want them to read your lips or your expressions.

Mando clunks down on the ground. 

“I have a plan,” you whisper.

“A plan,” Mando repeats, flatly.

“Half a plan. A third of a plan. Okay, the beginnings of a plan. And you’re going to hate it.”

Mando brings his hands up to his helmet, covering his visor. In fairness, the skepticism is warranted, but this is the only chance you’ve got.

☆

“Let me get this straight,” Mando says, his voice low. “You want to sell out the kid—”

“Well, no.”

“—pretend to betray me—"

“Sort of. Yeah.” 

“—and double-cross the captain?”

“Well, when you put it _that_ way.” You roll your eyes. “You don’t have to sound so dubious.”

“Give me a reason not to.”

“Okay, listen,” you whisper back. “This is the plan. Darend and Kuuzo don’t know what’s in the crib. They didn’t see the kid before we boarded. Didn’t you hear the way Darend talked about the crib? ‘ _Oh, and whatever this thing is_ ,’” you repeat. “He said _thing_. He thinks it’s some kind of, like, droid or something. He doesn’t know what’s in it.”

Mando doesn’t seem convinced. Then again, you might just be projecting your own doubts onto his ridiculous, unreadable helmet. 

“And he doesn’t seem to know much about you, either. So I call them down here and say I have valuable information.”

“About the kid.”

“Sort of. I’m not going to tell him about the kid. Just—something about the orb. I’ll make it up.”

“We’ll still be locked in here.”

“ _No_ ,” you say, trying not to throw up your hands in frustration. “I’ll refuse to tell anyone but Darend. ‘ _The information is too valuable for anyone but the captain_.’ Plus, do you really think they’d let you overhear me selling you out? Tell me you wouldn’t kill me in a second if you thought I was betraying you.”

Silence from the Mandalorian. He can’t argue with that.

“So they take me to see the captain. I’ll have the knife—”

“Vibroblade.”

“ _—vibroblade_ tucked into my boot.”

“Your plan is to stab the captain?”

“I mean, yeah.”

You hear his sigh clear through his modulator.

“Do you have a better idea?” 

“No.” The Mandalorian considers for a moment. “Fine. Tell me the rest of the plan.”

☆

Other than the blaster pressed to the small of your back, your plan is going pretty much as planned. Well, that and the handcuffs. Luckily for you, they’ve cuffed your hands in the front. _This crew really is bottom-tier,_ you think. _Cuffing in the front allows for more mobility_. _Obviously._ Still, it’s not ideal. Regardless, the blue-skinned crewmember is marching you through the corridors of the ship, leading—you _hope_ —to Darend and the bridge. Just as planned.

“I hope you’re not as trigger-happy as that buckethead back there. You don’t want to shoot me before I get to talk to Darend.”

“ _Captain_ Darend,” the crewmate corrects you gruffly.

“ _Captain_ Darend,” you repeat. “I promise, I’ll make this trip worth your while.”

“Shut up, prisoner.”

You _really_ don’t miss traveling with smugglers.

After what feels like forever working your way through the labyrinthine ship, you arrive at a set of double doors. The crewmate punches a code into the keypad with his free hand, one hand keeping the blaster to your back. The doors slide open with a soft _whoosh,_

Inside, it’s what you expected. Just Darend, sitting in the captain’s chair, feet propped up on the command module. _He probably thinks that looks cool,_ you think. _Fucking ridiculous, more like it._

Darend spins around in the chair, looking you up and down. He nods at the crewmate, and you take a breath of relief when you feel the blaster lift from your spine. When you turn around, you want to suck the sigh of relief right back into your lungs. The blue-skinned smuggler doesn’t leave the room; instead, he shuts the doors and stands between them. Clearly he’s going to stay and guard the captain. Kriff, that complicates things.

You nod in his direction. “Any chance he could wait outside?”

“On my ship, prisoners don’t get to negotiate terms,” Darend says, fingering the blaster on his belt idly.

_Damn_. You force your face to stay impassive. “Fair enough,” you say. “Though I’m not sure you want anyone else to hear what I have to say.”

“Is it that valuable?” He asks, droll. 

“Could be. I just don’t want an unfortunate incident to befall you,” you say. “I think I like you, captain.”

“Is that so.” 

You really can’t get anywhere with this guy. You take a step forward, and you hear the guard behind you move forward too. Darend looks between you and the guard, considering, before waving the guard back.

“She’s cuffed, Luca. What can she do?”

You take a few steps forward, until you’re close enough to the captain to speak without the crewmate—Luca, apparently—hearing. “It’s about the orb.”

Darend nods off to the side. “That one?”

Sure enough, the child’s crib is floating in the corner of the bridge. It’s still closed, you notice with relief. No sign that they’ve even considered trying to force it open.

“That one.” You take another step closer. To your relief, Darend removes his hand from his blaster. Instead, he props them up on the arms of his chair, steepling his fingers like some kind of underworld mogul. Maker, this guy is ridiculous.

“What about it?”

“Let’s just say what’s in that little orb is worth more than the pile of beskar you have locked up in your hold.”

Darend raises an eyebrow. “You really don’t know about the bounty on him, do you?”

“No,” you answer honestly. “But I know what that orb is worth, and what’s inside is worth more than you can imagine. Why do you think I agreed to hitch a ride with a Mandalorian? You and me, we’re the same. Smugglers know when they see something valuable.” 

The captain looks at you for a long moment. He stands up, and you jerk back as he steps into your space. “Can you open it?”

“What?”

Darend leans in and you can smell his breath. It’s not good. “I said, _can you open it?_ ” 

“Yes,” you lie.

Mercifully, Darend turns away from you. He walks over to the orb with his typical exaggerated swagger. You take a risk and drop to the ground, clawing at the zipper on your boot. Your fingers find the vibroblade, and you pull it free and tilt it out of Darend’s view. It lays flush against your forearm, hidden from sight. 

“Get up,” Luca barks from behind you.

With your free hand, you wave him off. “Sorry—oh, _Maker_ —sorry. My leg,” you whimper. “My leg is cramped. Your cargo hold isn’t exactly comfortable, you know.” 

Darend looks back at you and rolls his eyes. “It’s not meant to be. You don’t seem to know what being a prisoner entails.” He crosses back across the bridge, dragging the crib behind him. “So. You’re telling me this pretty little thing contains something more valuable than a renegade Mandalorian with a bounty on his head?” 

You nod. Darend steps closer. _Good_. _Take the bait._

“Now don’t tell me you need to be uncuffed to open this thing, because I won’t buy it.”

Here it is. The key moment. You have one chance, or you’re dead. In your head, you run through the room’s layout. Behind you is Luca, armed with a blaster that will lay you flat the moment it fires. Darend stands not two feet from you, just in front of the captain’s chair. The orb floats behind him, shut tight. The kid’s safe, no matter what happens. You take a short breath, adrenaline pumping through your veins. Then you fucking _go_.

☆

As soon as you move, the careful plan in your head becomes a blur of motion. You flip the knife into your palm and lunge at Darend before he can even see it, sinking it deep in his chest. He gasps and stumbles back, slumping to the floor. He coughs and scrabbles on the ground, heels sliding on the durasteel. He’s breathing, but you know the blade struck true. It’s a fatal wound. 

You reach down for his blaster, pulling it free of the holster, before throwing yourself to the side. The captain’s chair provides cover from Luca’s blaster fire. You’re about to loose a bolt at him from across the room when you hear a roar from his direction and—oh, fuck, he’s charging at you. Fuck. _Fuck_. 

You fumble with the blaster, your cuffed hands offering little mobility, until he’s just feet from you. He’s within range of a fatal shot, and your hands are shaking, but you find the trigger just in time. A blue bolt from the barrel of Darend’s blaster, and Luca sinks to the ground, the hole between his eyes still smoking.

You shudder. Not the first life you’ve taken like that, but you hate it every time. Watching the light fade from someone’s eyes because of you is never pleasant.

All around you, alarms burst to life. _What the fuck? How do they even know something is wrong?_

You hear labored breathing from the floor. Darend lays on the floor, grappling with the commlink on his wrist. He brings it to his mouth, but you move faster. _Ouch_. A blaster shot directly to the hand can’t feel good. He collapses back on the floor and howls, nearly as loud as the blaring sirens.

Your hands, still cuffed, fly across the command module, looking for the alarm control. You slap all the buttons that look likely, and wait for the alarms to shut up while you look for the door controls. On the ship’s monitors, you see two crucial screens: the cell where Mando stands ready to bolt, and the cargo hold, where crew members rush across the screen towards the hallway. A flip of a switch, and the door in front of Mando slides open. He looks up at the holocam and nods, and your eyes flick to the screens monitoring the hallways, now showing Mando running from the cell to the hold.

Kriff, you hope he knows where he’s going. 

On the floor, the captain has finally stopped hacking. A pool of blood spreads out underneath him, the stab wound in his chest finally doing its work. You step over his body and reach for the crib, pulling it towards you. You don’t know what the child is thinking inside it—you don’t even know what he can hear of what’s just happened—but the protective instinct is there all the same.

On the screen, the Mandalorian is grappling hand-to-hand with the crew. Your assumption was right: they’re running this ship on a skeleton crew, but it’s still six-to-one in the dim hallway. Briefly, you consider rushing out into the corridor to help Mando, but before you can even move he’s disarmed two of the smugglers and decked a third. Kuuzo is the first to go down, you notice. It pleases you more than you'd like to admit. In the space of thirty seconds—only a handful of breaths—Mando has shot down the other three.

_Unbelievable_ , you think. You’ve never seen him in action. _It’s—Maker_ , _it’s incredible._

He looks around, helmet swiveling, until he spots the holocam. He gestures forwards, and you flip the switch that opens the next door. One by one, you open each segment of the ship as he runs through, shutting them behind him. The crew lays dead behind him, but you seal the doors after Mando passes through in case there’s any men left in the bowels of the ship. 

Finally, the Mandalorian comes to the door of the bridge, and you flip the switch to let him in. He takes quick stock of the room, the blue-skinned guard laying dead in front of you, Darend dead at your side. 

“Good work, kid,” he says, sounding duly impressed.

You scramble out of the captain’s chair and run towards him, tugging the crib behind you in your cuffed hands. _Why do you suddenly want to hug him?_ Fighting the urge to throw your arms around him, you instead push the crib between you. Mando presses a button on the front and it opens with a hiss.

Inside, the kid is clutching his blankets, wide eyes full of fear. The Mandalorian bends down and picks him up without hesitation, holding him to his breastplate as the kid whimpers. His little green fingers grasp at Mando’s hand and Mando hushes him, stroking his wrinkly little head.

“Sorry to interrupt, but, uh, can you…?” You hold your hands out, showing the Mandalorian the cuffs still locked on your wrist. He snorts and reaches for his blaster.

“Hands out,” he says. 

_Are you fucking kidding me?_ All the same, you obey, holding your arms away from your body and shutting your eyes tight.

A single blaster bolt between the shackles, and the entire contraption slips off your wrist and clanks to the floor. 

“Nice shot.” You rub your wrists, raw from the rough metal of cuffs. “I’ll set coordinates. Trask or Maldo Kreis?”

“Maldo Kreis.” The Mandalorian still holds the child to his chest. “I need the _Razor Crest._ I can’t leave her behind.”

You don’t understand his attachment to that hunk of junk, but you don’t question it. You cross the room to the nav panel, on the starboard side of the command module. A few digits, and the ship’s destination is changed from Nevarro to Maldo Kreis.

You turn to shout back at the Mandalorian that the course is set, but a strange sound makes you stop still. Your gaze falls down to the floor between you and the command module, where the Darend is forcing himself to his knees. 

He was dead. You were sure of it. He was fucking _dead_. 

The Mandalorian doesn’t notice, still soothing the kid, who’s resisting being placed back in the crib. You try to scream but it sticks in your throat. As if in slow motion, you see the captain wrench the vibroblade out of his chest and aim it straight at— _oh, Maker._

“No!” You move without thinking. Darend’s eyes widen as you throw yourself between him and the Mandalorian. Time freezes. Your mind goes blank. Nothing matters except the kid.

You shut your eyes tight, bracing for the blade to strike. 

“What the hell—” Darend’s voice cuts through the tension, and your eyes snap open. In front of you, the vibroblade hovers inches from your stomach, frozen in space. Just as quickly as it was thrown, it turns and flies through the air, striking the captain right between the eyes. He collapses to the floor, and a rapid blaster shot from the Mandalorian makes sure he stays down for good. 

Shaking, you turn to face the Mandalorian. In his arms, the child is reaching forward, his little hands outstretched. Then he drops his arms, his big eyes slipping shut and his body going limp.

_No, no, no._ You rush towards the Mandalorian, but he gestures for you to stop. Unbothered, he lays the child in his crib softly. The lid slides shut and locks. 

“He’ll be out for a while.”

You feel faint. What the hell just happened? You clutch your hands to your stomach, feeling for the wound even though you know the blade buried in the captain’s skull. There’s a nick in your shirt, but no blood. The Mandalorian rushes to your side and catches you as your knees go weak, holding you up.

“Are you hurt?” Even with your heartbeat pounding in your ears, concern is clear in his voice.

“No. I just—what the hell—the kid—what...?” 

“Don’t worry about it.” The Mandalorian walks you over the captain’s chair and helps you sit. “You did good, kid.” 

It sounds a little sarcastic, considering you’re about to pass out from a phantom wound. “Thanks.”

“I’m serious.” Mando puts his hand under your chin, forcing you to face him. “You did good. I’ve got it from here.”

“Okay.” Your head feels light and the room starts to spin. The last thing you feel before your eyes slip shut is Mando’s hand squeezing your shoulder. 

☆

Maybe minutes have passed since you fainted. Maybe hours. You’re still in the captain’s chair when you come to, but a soft weight is wrapped around you. Through cracked eyelids, you see the Mandalorian’s cloak draped over you.

“Hey.” Your voice is a little fuzzy. “Thanks.”

The Mandalorian turns in the chair by the nav control, looking you up and down. “How are you feeling?”

“Uh, confused. Did I pass out?”

Mando snorts. It’s kind of annoying, actually, how easily his sarcastic noises process through his helmet. It's like he's set his filter to prioritize sarcasm. “Yeah.”

“Am I hurt?” You sit up in the chair. Your legs feel a little stiff, and your wrists are still raw from the cuffs, but nothing worse than that.

“Not that I could see.”

“I…” you trail off, your hand ghosting across your stomach where the blade almost stabbed you. On the floor, you expect to see Darend. Instead, there’s—nothing. No body. Just dried blood. 

“How long was I out?”

He sees you looking around. “Not long. Long enough, though. To clean up.” He nods in the direction of the door.

“What about the crew? Were there any left?”

The Mandalorian shakes his head. This is par for the course for him, you’re sure, but you’ve never killed more than one man in a fight. Certainly never eight in a day. You don’t feel guilty, not exactly, because what could you have done? They _kidnapped_ you. They kidnapped a Mandalorian and thought they could get away with it. All the same, you can’t help but feel like you killed some of your own. Smugglers are smugglers are smugglers, good or bad. In a different life, you might’ve been on this ship as crew.

“Hey.” You look up from the floor and the Mandalorian is walking towards you. “I dealt with it. Okay? You’re fine. I’m fine. The kid’s fine.”

Reluctantly, you nod. 

“We’ll be back to Maldo Kreis within the next solar cycle. Then we’ll fix the _Crest_ and get to Trask.”

“Finally,” you snort.

“Yeah.” 

☆

This ship isn’t the most glamorous you’ve ever seen, but the transparisteel window at the front of the bridge offers a beautiful view of space. You don’t need to jump to get back to Maldo Kreis, and a quick scan of the ship’s mechanics tells you that it might not hold together in hyperspace at all. So you and the Mandalorian wait it out on the bridge, the kid still asleep in his crib. 

In front of the command module is a stepped space perfect for sitting and watching the stars, and there’s no blood on this side of the floor. You settle with your back against the module, your legs propped up on the step below. Mando’s cloak is still wrapped tight around your shoulders. It smells like him, a combination of leather and sweat and an unnamable masculine smell that you want to bathe in. Outside, planets pass by, stars twinkling in the distance. It reminds you of watching the sky out of the cockpit of the wrecked Razor Crest on Maldo Kreis. Even when things go wrong—truly, incredibly, _horrifically_ wrong—the stars are always there. And you’re alive to see them.

The Mandalorian stops fiddling with the nav monitor and you hear his footsteps approach. He sits down next to you, and you scoot over to make room for him. His beskar clanks against the module as he leans back. You wonder again what it’s like to see the world through his helmet. Are the stars as bright as they are to the naked eye? Can he hear the low whirr of the ship below you? Can he feel your blood running hot as soon as he gets close to you?

You know the rules he sets for himself. You know of the Way of the Mandalorians. But still—you’re alive, he’s alive, you fought and killed today, and you came through it together. The relief washes over you like warm water, and you want to hug him. Fuck the armor; you want it out of your way.

Instead, you settle for scooting a little closer to him, pressing yourself against him, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. You barely know him, really, but the energy between you is magnetic. 

He looks down at you, his visor unreadable. 

His pauldron is cold and uncomfortable against your cheek as you rest your head on his shoulder, but you don’t particularly care. All things considered, a beskar panel on your face is the least uncomfortable thing you’ve experienced in the past day.

“How’s the kid?”

“Still asleep.”

“I feel like I should thank him. For, y’know, saving my life.”

“You were saving his.”

You look up at him. At Din. You’re allowed to call him Din now, aren’t you? With no one but the stars watching? 

“You were too.” 

“That’s my job,” he says, and his voice comes out a little rough. “You didn’t have any obligation to. But you did.”

Huh. It never occurred to you to think about it that way. But the kid—he’s innocent. You don’t really know him, sure, not his name or his age or even what race he comes from, but he’s an innocent all the same. You live outside the law, but protecting those who don’t do harm—that’s universal. 

Well, except for flinging a vibroblade into a pirate’s skull with magical wizard baby powers. But that was self-defense. The child needs protection, all the same. People to look after him—people like Din and you.

Silence stretches out between you. There’s something inside you, some kind of need, but you can’t put a name to it. There’s no words to articulate it; you don’t even really know what you want, except somewhere to put the incredible _aliveness_ bubbling up in your chest. 

“Din.” Your voice is soft. 

“Yeah?”

“I…” you trail off. 

How do you put this into words? Maybe there isn’t a way to articulate it. Maybe you need to show it. You reach down to the nick in your shirt and tug, tearing a long strip of dark fabric.

The Mandalorian watches you, silently.

You tug the length of fabric free, pulling it between your hands. When you hold it up against the viewport, it’s perfect. Nothing comes through. It’s a thick, tightly-woven fabric, perfect for blocking out starlight. 

He’s still watching you. Slowly, you bring the fabric up to your face. It fits over your eyes just right, plunging you into darkness. Your hands fumble behind your head, trying to tie a knot, but your hands are still a bit weak from the tight cuffs earlier and you fail spectacularly at tying even a simple bow.

Then his hands come around the back of your head, and you suck in a small breath when you feel his fingers bare against yours. He guides your hands, tying the fabric over your hair. When he drops his hands, you catch them in front of you. His skin is calloused but his hands are so warm. They’re big and firm and capable. You like them, so you press a soft kiss to his palms.

His breath hitches. You can’t see anything, but you know your bearings well enough to turn and climb into his lap. His hands find your waist immediately. 

“I can’t see."

“I know.” His voice is low and husky.

“ _Please_.” 

He knows what you mean. Despite the darkness of the blindfold, you know what he’s doing. You hear the sound of fabric rustling, and the clink of metal on metal as he rests his helmet on the ground. His breathing is so clear and so present without the filter in the way. Heat radiates against your face and you’re certain he’s leaning in, but you stop him with a finger on his lips. 

You gesture blindly in the direction of his armor. “This too.”

You slip out of his lap and sit on the stepped floor below him, giving him space. _Clink_ . That’s the sound of his left pauldron hitting the floor. _Clink_. The right. You can hear every slight sound as he strips himself with military efficiency, leaving him in just his underlayer. Soft. Exposed. You crawl forward on your knees and he tugs you into his lap again.

“ _Maker_. If you could see…” he trails off and his fingers run through your hair. “The—the way you look. Against the stars.” 

Endearments always seem to stick in his throat, but you don’t care, because you have every intention to kiss all the words right out of his mouth. You surge up against him, hands finding his face, kissing him with all your joy of being alive. Here. Surviving. With him.

☆

There’s something unnameable in the way he touches you. It’s intoxicating, and you’re not sure who’s more lost in it, him or you. You can’t see him with the fabric over your eyes, but you can feel him and hear him—every hitch of breath, every bitten-off curse when you run your hands down his chest or kiss his neck. You feel his heartbeat under your palm and the flex of his abs when you slide your hands lower and lower down his body. 

He moves like he can’t get enough of you, that’s what it is. It’s like—he touches you like a man in the desert finding water for the first time, like a starving man given food, like he needs you to live. It makes sense, when you gather your wits enough to think. Locked away in a suit, hidden under the helmet, separated from anyone else. He has no one to touch him. In his ship floating in space, flitting from place to place, all he has is the kid. He takes care of the child, but who takes care of him? There’s no one to dress his wounds, no one to brush his hair out of his face, no one to keep him warm at night. You think about all the nights you’ve slept alone in cold ship’s quarters, on metal cots, tugging your blankets around you tight enough to imagine it’s someone else’s arms. You ache with the memory of that feeling, and suddenly it all falls into place: his restless energy, the way he can’t seem to get enough of you. 

Adrenaline is coursing through your veins, making you just as ravenous as he is. It’s pumping through your blood, telling you to take what you can just because you came out of this alive. You started this in a rush, but you won’t let this burn out like a dying star. You can feel the aching need just under his skin, and you have every intention of meeting his need—slowly. You want to slow down; you want to give him everything he’s missing, all the care he doesn’t receive. 

“Din,” you gasp, tugging at his hair. He groans against your neck and tightens his hands on your hips. You pull his hair harder. “ _Din_.”

He breaks away from you like he’s snapping out of a daze. “I—sorry.” He tilts his head back on the module behind him. “Too fast.”

“ _No_.” You loop your arms around his neck and kiss him, slow and deep. “Keep going. Just—slower."

He tilts his head, and you take the opportunity to duck your head and kiss his jaw and his neck. You’ve barely known him a week, but you know the spot just under his ear that makes him melt. The feral, possessive part of you really likes that; you know him, like no one else does. 

“We’re alive,” you whisper. You kiss down his neck, pulling his shirt aside to suck a bruise just above his collarbone. “We’re fucking _alive_ , Din. We have time.” 

You scoot backwards in his lap with every intention of going down on your knees, but he catches you before you can get far. Apparently, he’ll never let you get your mouth on him without a fight. He hauls you up like you weigh nothing and spins you, depositing _you_ on the highest step. He settles on the lower part of the floor, creating a false height difference between you. 

You suck in a breath when you hear him sink to his knees. His touch is firm on the inside of your knees when he spreads them, making space for his broad shoulders between your thighs. When you bend down to kiss him, he kisses you like a supplicant; like you’re giving him a benediction, like he’s begging for your kiss, your approval, just _you_ on bended knee. 

_Stars_. The rush of the realization makes you dizzy. That, and the feeling of his hands creeping up your thighs. He ducks his head and kisses the top of your knee over your leggings; you can feel the heat of his mouth even through the fabric. 

You didn’t mean _worship_ when you said _slow down_ , but it’s what you’re getting. He heard _slow down,_ and somehow that means dropping to his knees and doting on every inch of you. You’re not complaining, though. If this is what he needs, if this fills the void of affection and release and desire in his life, you’re more than willing to take as much as he’ll give. 

“Fuck,” he bites out, and it makes you jump. 

The blindfold over your eyes keeps you in darkness, but you try and look down at him all the same. “Din?”

He runs his hands up and down your thighs, a possessive gesture that makes heat pool between your legs. “You’re so—so— _fuck_.”

Endearments. Words of affection. Not his strong suit. 

As if he hears the uncertainty in your mind, he tries again. “You saved us,” he says. His voice, unfiltered and raw, is so _present_. Every inflection, every crack, every wavering syllable—you hear it all. He sounds so vulnerable without his helmet. You want to drink it down, lose yourself in it. “You saved the kid without thinking about it. You were going to die for him.”

You nod. Words are stuck in your throat, so you reach blindly for his hair and card your fingers through it. 

His hands dig into your thighs and you tighten around nothing at the strength of his hands on you. “You’re so—good. Just _good_. And you’re so fucking _perfect_.”

A moan escapes you before you can even think about it. Praise coming from him in that husky voice—oh, _Maker_. Briefly, insanely, you think you could come just from this. Then he reaches up and tugs at the hem of your shirt. His hands find your bare skin and you shed your layers as fast as you can, his touch roving to every exposed inch. You struggle to kick off your shoes, but he unzips them for you, his hands molding to the shape of your calves. 

He talks all the while. 

“So soft, so kriffing _pretty_. I want you...” His voice is ragged as he slips his hands under your leggings, curling his hands around the curve of your ass, pulling your hips towards him like you weigh nothing. “...even when I shouldn’t, I fucking want you. I wanted you again as soon as I had you.”

You can’t help but smile. He sounds so tortured over normal things like desire. 

“You can have me.” Your fingers ghost along the lines of his face.

“I don’t think you understand,” he growls. Maker, he sounds dangerous when he talks like that. You really shouldn’t like that so much, but it makes you so fucking wet. “I wanted to fuck you in that kriffing cell. I didn’t care that they were watching. I wanted to take you and show them that you’re _mine_.”

“ _Please_.” You didn’t intend it to come out of a whimper, but you can’t take the waiting anymore. You’re needy, you know you’re needy, but he’s not fucking helping by twisting the tension inside you tighter and tighter and not touching you where you need it most. “I would’ve let you. Please, Din. I want—stars—I _need_ you.” 

None of the teasing from last time. You can tell he’s at the end of his tether, same as you. He just brings his hands around to hold your hips, thumbs massaging the soft skin there. 

“Let me—fuck, let me taste you.”

_Fucking hell_ , you weren’t expecting that. 

“Please. Fuck. I need to know how you taste.” He sounds _desperate_. “I won’t—I want to fuck you, but not—not here. I won't fuck you on a bloody floor. You deserve better. But please—just give me this.”

You can’t even manage words. You just nod, probably a bit frantically. He practically tears your leggings off, leaving you in nothing but your panties, bare for him on the fucking floor of the bridge. Then he grips your legs and pulls you closer to the edge of the step, placing your legs over his shoulders, and your mind goes static. He ducks his head and mouths at your core over the fabric of your underwear. It’s— _stars_ , it’s dizzying. All the blood in your body rushes south and you’re left lightheaded. You can’t think anymore; you can’t do anything except take what he gives you.

Then he slips his fingers under the hem of your underwear and pulls them down. His calluses are rough as his hands slide down your legs and goosebumps ripple across your skin. You know what to expect, you brace for it, but the first time he licks at you is unreal. He forgot the directive _slow down_ as soon as you said it; he is _ravenous_. He buries his face between your legs, no teasing, no hesitation. He circles your clit with his tongue and then shifts away, licking the full length of your slit, chasing the taste of you at the source. Oh, Maker. _Maker_. If this is the kind of skill he’s hiding under that helmet, you’re happy to stay blindfolded forever. 

When your hands find his hair and tug, he moans. Except he’s _still fucking going_ , so it vibrates through your core like some kind of devastating heaven. You can’t help it, you roll your hips against his face, and he makes the same noise again, muffled between your legs. 

“That’s it,” he says, coming up just long enough to talk. His tone is _feral_. “Use me, sweetheart.”

You clap your other hand over your mouth to stifle the embarrassingly loud moan that escapes you. _Use me, sweetheart._ You twist your hips helplessly and he grabs your waist, chasing you, keeping his hot mouth on your core and not letting you get away. 

“Fuck my face.” His voice is low and muffled but you hear that clear as day. “Come on, sweetheart, grind on me. Use my face to make you come.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears and you wish you could see him as he says that. Down on his knees, looking up at you with big brown eyes—you’re guessing they’re brown, you’d like to imagine they are, endless and rich and lovely—as he lavishes attention on you with his mouth. 

Then he groans, desperate and wild, when you’ve said nothing to prompt it. Realization strikes you like a bolt of lightning. 

“Are you— _ah_ —are you touching yourself?”

He says something, but it’s muffled. You yank his hair until he pulls away for you for half a fucking second. 

“I said, are you touching yourself right now?” 

“Fuck. _Yes_. _Fuck_ ,” he swears, and your eyes nearly roll back in your head. Now that’s an image: not only on his knees for you, telling you to use his mouth to get off, but—oh, _Maker_ —getting off on it. Getting himself off on worshipping you and being used. Fuck, he’s actually going to ruin you for anyone else. And you’ve never even seen his face. 

“Can I—can I keep going?” He sounds unsure, and you nod, frantic. 

“Yes. Please. Fuck, Din, I’m gonna—oh, _stars_ —”

He sounds way too fucking pleased when he moves the hand from your thigh to between your legs, running his fingers through the mess you’ve made. “Good. _Good_. Come on my mouth, sweetheart.”

Then he returns to the task like he’s hell-bent on making you come harder than you ever have in your fucking life. He presses two fingers against your entrance and you’re so wet there’s no resistance. He hooks them, pressing up against that place inside you that makes your legs shake, and takes your clit in his mouth and _sucks_. It’s so much. It’s _too_ much; after barely any time at all, you’re tugging at his hair and tossing your head and trying to warn him but he refuses to pull away until oh, _stars_ , you’re almost there, almost there, _almost—_

Then you fall apart and feel nothing but starlight streaking through your body. 

Dimly, you’re aware that he keeps going, letting you grind it out on his face and tighten around his fingers. Your blood rushes in your ears and it’s hard to hear but you’re fairly certain he groaned when you finished, and you _really_ hope that means he didn’t finish himself off, because you’re not done with him yet. 

When he finally lets you go, you collapse back against the metal behind you and bask in the feeling of warmth that tingles from your fingers to your toes. Your legs slip off his shoulders, and you hear him slump back on the steps below you. Again, you wish in vain that you could see him, but you know the deal. You can touch him and kiss him and do everything you want with him except see his face. 

A long moment, and you’re sliding off the top step to join him below.

“What—?” He sounds dazed. “What are you…”

“ _Mm_ ,” you make a little noise of pleasure when you find him and kneel between the vee of his sprawled legs. “Can’t see shit. Where’s your cloak—the fucking _cape_ thing, whatever the fuck you call it—where…?”

He seems utterly mystified and doesn’t respond. Once again: you think you might’ve broken his brain. You’ll take it as a compliment. 

“The cloak thing. Put it on the floor somewhere. I don’t care. Wanna—wanna lay with you. Please.” 

He softens and pulls you in, holding you tight against his chest. His breath is deep and steady in his chest and he’s so kriffing _warm_ ; you could stay here forever. But you’re not done with him yet. After a long moment, you start to pull him in the direction of what you assume is empty floor space on the bridge. 

His laugh is clear as a bell as he tugs your arm. His hand comes up to cup the side of your head, moving you away from something. “Stop—kriff, you madwoman. You’re going to concuss yourself.”

You reach out blindly and realize—oh, yeah, that’s the command module. You almost clocked your head on the module, which might’ve been kind of funny, but you really don’t want to kill the mood. So you settle down and relinquish control and let him lead the way. 

He finds his cloak and lays it out on the floor, and yeah, it’s a little fucked up that you’re about to finish him off on the floor of the ship you just commandeered, but you really don’t care. He’s alive, you’re alive, and the kid is safe, and you want to make him feel as impossibly good as he made you feel. He collapses on his back and pulls you down with him. You curl against his side, resting your face on his chest and throwing your arm across him. Your leg comes up to cross over his, and still you want to be closer.

He’s so warm under you. Why is he still wearing his clothes? Why can you never get him naked? For another time, you suppose. You slide your hand under his shirt, resting it on his stomach. You like the way his stomach flexes when you touch him there, like he’s not used to being touched unless it’s in battle.

Then you slide your hand lower, and you like that even more. The trail of hair under his navel makes your mouth water and he tightens his arm around you. 

“Were you really jerking yourself off?”

He chokes on air. “W-what?”

“Don’t pretend.” It’s probably not fair that you’re interrogating him while simultaneously slipping your hands into his underwear, but life isn’t fair. “Were you really jerking yourself off while you made me come on your face?”

A thunk, and you’re eighty percent sure he just dropped his head on the ground. You chase him, trying to kiss him, missing his lips, and kissing his cheek. He reaches up to help you. When you kiss him, you taste yourself in his mouth. _Stars_ , you love it. 

“Yes,” he grunts, and he sounds tortured. Funny, how he sounds the same when he’s lost in pleasure as when he’s in pain. You love that too. He’s hot and hard in your hand. He wasn’t lying about touching himself; you’ve barely touched him, and you can tell he’s already close to the edge.

“You’re filthy, you know that?” You bury your face in his neck, kissing the place where you feel his pulse throb under your lips. “Does anyone else know you’re like this?”

“ _No_.” His breath sounds like a drowning man.

“I like it.” You bring your hand up and lick your palm before curling it around his length again. “Knowing you like no one else does. Like—if I kiss you _here_ —” your lips press to his pulse again “—you make pretty noises.”

Make pretty noises, he does.

“And when I do _this_ —” your hand twists around him and your thumb brushes over his head “—you lose your shit.”

His back arches on the floor, his hips bucking into your hand.

“That’s it, sweetheart.” His endearment for you rolls off your tongue easily. “Let go. I wanna feel you.”

His hips jerk again, and you bite his neck to leave another mark. The last shred of control he had slips away, and he throws his head back on the floor and starts to fuck your hand. You barely have to do anything, just keep your grip firm, keep your body close to his.

“So close,” he gasps, and you hide a smile in the crook of his neck. “I’m gonna—oh, fuck, I’m gonna come. Fuck, fuck, _fuck—_ ” 

His voice breaks off into a long, low moan as he pulses in your hand. It turns into the sound of your name, desperate and vulnerable. He comes _hard_ , his entire body tensing, before collapsing boneless on the floor.

You sit up, not entirely clear where you are in relation to him, and you don’t know if he’s got his eyes closed or if he’s looking at all, but you bring your hand up to your mouth all the same. He came all over your hand, you can feel it, and you slowly start to lick it off your fingers.

“ _Fuck_ —fucking hell, woman,” he swears, and that’s how you know he’s watching. Then his hand swipes across the corner of your lips, collecting what you missed, and you feel his thumb pressing into your mouth. You hollow your cheeks around it and suck and he makes a noise like he’s dying. 

“I am too fucking old for this,” he grunts, and he pulls his hand away from your mouth as you laugh aloud. “You’re going to kill me, you know that?”

“We both know I’m not capable of that.” 

What? It’s the truth.

He reaches for you and pulls you down to his side again. A long moment passes, both of you figuring out how to breathe normally again. You feel tired and loose-limbed and satisfied down to your bones. 

“Don’t take it off.” His voice is right next to your ear, barely a whisper.

“What?”

“The blindfold.” He kisses your temple. “Don’t take it off. Just—stay here. Okay?”

“Okay.” 

Minutes pass, with no noise but the hum of the ship and his slow breaths in his chest. When you're sure he's asleep, you prop your chin up on his chest.

"I'm sorry." Your voice is so quiet, it's barely even a whisper. 

"For—for what?" He sounds confused a little groggy. 

Of _course_ he's awake.

"You told me I was allowed to apologize after we got out of it." You trace your fingers along his ribs. "We got out of it. So I'm sorry."

He pulls you closer and presses his lips to the top of your head. " _Stop_. Just sleep, okay?"

You’re fine with that. 

**Author's Note:**

> Endless love to you all for your support, kudos, comments, etc. It turns out there was more to write after part one, thanks to y'all <3
> 
> Also, props to Star Wars name generators. Wouldn't have finished this without them. 
> 
> On [tumblr](https://letterfromvienna.tumblr.com/) if you want to chat xoxo


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